


The Twentieth Face

by Ghislainem70



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Creepy, Gen, Gothic, Implied Bullying, Or worse, aickmanesque
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-29 00:42:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10842879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghislainem70/pseuds/Ghislainem70
Summary: John Watson investigates a strange disappearance at a boys' school.





	The Twentieth Face

**Author's Note:**

> This ficlet was written as an homage to the great writer of "strange stories," Robert Aickman. If you haven't read his work, do that now. He is something in the vein of Shirley Jackson, but really stands alone. This work previously was posted on LJ but I'm importing all of those works to AO3.

 

**_The Twentieth Face_ **

**Day One.**

John was slowly losing control. The ‘slowly’ part was, actually, hopeless optimism on his part.

There were nineteen youthful faces in his classroom. Some stared at John with expressions of either hostility, curiousity, or (and these were the ones he understood most) deep skepticism. Some didn’t look at him at all, conducting those whispered interactions peculiar to eleven-year-old boys. But none of them really paid him any attention at all.

The twentieth face was missing.

The twentieth face was the reason John was here.

John wore an ill-fitting suit and tie and false spectacles, but not the mustache Sherlock had been so keen on: "If you could just stop licking your lip, John, it wouldn’t keep falling off."

"And I’m the one doing this because . . ."

Sherlock looked both baffled and indignant. "Surely you don’t expect me to spend a week in a classroom with a pack of eleven-year-old boys, John."

"And you expect me to? Anyway, why not? You were an eleven-year-old boy once, too, Sherlock."

"I most certainly was not."

And so, in the end, it was John writing out "My Name Is Mr. Thomas" and wincing at the horrid shriek of chalk on the blackboard.

**Day Two.**

John acknowledged that he had officially lost control of the class. Not that they were being unruly: no shouting, joking, spitwads, passed notes. Just a sense that the boys thought Mr. Thomas was a total wanker.

He had a carefully prepared lesson plan, but no amount of coaxing or threats would induce any of them to answer the simplest questions.

But then one boy asked one. Encouraged, John called on him.

"Yes, Jeremy?"

"Do you always stutter like that? Sir."

There was an expectant silence. Then, a few snickers.

The truth was, John had stuttered. As a child. He had mastered it. Evidently, this pack of restless eleven-year-olds brought it roaring back. Which he hadn’t expected.

Even in Afghanistan, where his nerves had been wracked, he had never stuttered.

John stared out at nineteen faces. They looked . . . happy. He realized it was because he was uncomfortable. "Well, act-act-ually," he began. Thinking he might teach them something about overcoming hardship. But just then the clock achieved the final hour. The boys bolted.

 _Forget it,_ he chided himself. _I’m not here to teach them anything. I’m here to learn something._

_If I can._

  
**Day Three.**

John tried to identify a ringleader, the sort who one could imagine had done away with the missing boy. He remembered boys like that: swaggering bullies; also, sometimes, the sullen ones. Who were actually more dangerous.

There wasn’t any boy here like that. The might have been brothers: privileged, sleek, expensively clothed, bored out of their little wits. They had shiny expensive gadgets that they fiddled with under their desks.

Something about these boys was making him a little angry.

He noticed something about that.

The stuttering stopped.

And he noticed another thing.

No one looked at the empty desk in the second row.

John thought that rather odd.

  
**Day Four.**

John decided to try an experiment.

He picked up his notes - burial customs of the ancient Britons, which as a boy he would have loved, imagining buried treasure, ancient swords – and circled the room. He read from the lesson. Without stuttering.

The boys’s eyes followed his progress. Sharp, appraising; but he knew not one of them was interested in stories of ancient graves.

He and Sherlock had agreed that asking any direct questions about the missing boy was bound to raise suspicion. So, he didn’t.

"I’ve drawn up a new seating chart," John said politely, evenly. "Everyone in Row Three, move up one seat."

No one moved.

"Look, boys, you heard me. I won’t ask again." This time he put behind it some of the soft menace that made other soldiers in Afghanistan take heed. "Move." They moved.

Ronald, the boy who had to take the missing boy’s seat, looked sick.

  
**Day Five.**

At the end of class, John watched out the window. The other boys gave Ronald a wide berth. They had done, all day long.

The boys were supposed to be walking to gymnasium now. You could see it from here. It wasn’t far.

After a few tries at joining the other boys, Ronald slouched off alone, disappearing around a corner.

A few minutes later, the boys were pushing through the gymnasium doors. The bell rang. Idly, John counted heads.

There were eighteen.

John ran.


End file.
